by Alex Bledsoe
She shook her head. “A few of my ancestors tried over the years. They came back all messed up.”
“Messed up how?”
She put her finger to her temple and twirled it, the universal symbol for insanity.
He walked up to it and peered through the medieval-looking spikes of the hawthorns. Then gave her a sly smile. “Want to try now?”
“Can’t. I’m pretty limber, but I can’t get past all them thorns.”
He carefully reached through and grasped one of the bushes right at the ground. He grunted with effort, and then the hawthorn came loose. He tossed it aside and pulled another one out of the shallow dirt, leaving a passage large enough for a man to use. “Come on,” he said.
She held back. “I don’t know. Can you check first?”
“Should I call for the Queen?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said seriously.
He went a few feet into the dark opening, then stopped. He closed his eyes to listen. At first he heard only the faint sounds from outside and the soft wind through cracks in the mountain.
But then he heard it.
The closest description he could think of was the music that might come from fragile, delicate glass instruments. But there was also a woman’s voice, pure and high. He’d been to symphonies and minstrel shows, heard bar pianos and chamber music concerts, and none of them approached the beauty of this faint music.
“You hear anything?” Sophronie called.
“Oh, yes,” he said, eyes still closed.
“That’s the same thing Dahni heard all them years ago.”
“It’s beautiful.” Without a conscious choice, he moved toward it, his feet sliding in the dirt and sand. “I’m going to go a little farther, okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he might have caught the worry and reluctance in her voice.
He felt along the rock walls as he moved. Ahead, the passage turned slightly, and once around it, he would be out of sight of the cave mouth.
“Sean!” Sophronie called, with an urgency that snapped him from his reverie. “That’s enough, I reckon you better come on out of there.”
He reluctantly rejoined her outside the cave. She took his hand and pulled him farther away, as if afraid the vengeful queen of her story might burst forth.
“That was fascinating,” he said. “What was that noise?”
She took this so much more seriously than he did. “I told you already. It’s what Dahni heard. The song of the Queen, a warning to all our people to go no farther.”
“Right,” he said patiently.
She seemed to make up her mind about something. “Look, Sean, now that I’ve told you that story, I need to show you something. It’s so you’ll know that the story is true, and what the Tufa really are, what I really am.”
He recalled the viperish reverend’s derogatory comments about the Tufa’s racial origins. “I don’t care, Sophronie.”
“That’s because you don’t know. Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you.”
He did as she asked.
“Open your eyes now, Sean,” Sophronie said.
He did. And couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure he could breathe.
Sophronie now wore loose, shimmery garments that showed more than they covered. She was perfect, every curve and contour exquisite, her skin now pale, her black hair loose and wild.
But that wasn’t all. Those qualities were minor compared to what overwhelmed him.
She had wings. Wide, diaphanous, sparkling wings.
“This is me,” she said, her voice no longer that of a young, illiterate mountain girl. Something sang in it, a musical quality that permeated even these mundane words. Then she began to truly sing:
Oh, time makes men grow sad
And rivers change their ways,
But the night wind and her riders
Will ever stay the same …
If this was the enchantment she’d mentioned, then he would gladly fall under its spell. She danced in the air now, turning with a grace that he’d never imagined possible.
He reached a tentative hand toward her. “Is this the real you?” he asked softly, afraid to disturb the moment.
“I’m real no matter what,” she said.
“I love you,” he blurted, the words springing forth before he even realized he’d formed them.
Still touching his fingertips, still hovering in the air, she laughed. But it wasn’t malicious; it was a sound of delight, of happiness. “You hardly know me,” she said.
“What else do I need to know?” he said, and stepped closer.
She laughed again, pulled her hand away, and twirled in the air. The breeze from her wings blew against Sean’s face, reminding him again that he wasn’t dreaming, or hallucinating, or drunk.
He laughed as well, happier than he’d ever been, happier than he ever thought he could be.
* * *
Through the nearby undergrowth, hidden behind trees and a pile of rocks that used to be a boulder until a winter freeze shattered it, Ben Hubbard held his camera steady. The mechanism was so quiet that its mechanical clicking was lost in the wind.
He’d followed Sophronie and Sean on a whim, a little jealous of Sean’s effortless success with the girl. He wanted to shoot some candid film of them so that when Sean watched it back in Fort Lee, he’d jump a mile. But now …
Wings, he thought. She’s got wings. She’s a—
And then the word sprang to his mind with no prompting. His younger sister had once owned paper dolls that looked like Sophronie did now, little sprites that danced around flowers just as the real girl now danced around trees and boulders.
He thought of his sister, now working in a silk garment factory in Paterson. What would she say if he told her that he’d seen an actual, real live fairy in the mountains of Tennessee?
Ben could only think of one thing to say. He mouthed it, afraid to voice it even as a whisper, lest he disturb the magic of what he was seeing.
Wow.
* * *
It was late afternoon before Sean and Sophronie returned to Sadieville. The streets were filled with people, but they barely registered on Sean. He had eyes only for the magical girl beside him, now back in her simple farm dress and hair bow.
As they approached the boardinghouse, Sophronie slipped her hand from his. When he looked at her, she said quietly, “It’s better for everybody if we don’t make it too obvious.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said.
“And I’m not ashamed of you,” she said with a knowing, mischievous wink. “It’s just better.”
He couldn’t argue. About anything. He now believed all the warnings about being under a spell, because he was totally enchanted. From the first touch, the first kiss, he’d been entirely hers. He no longer cared about his career, his family, or anything except being with Sophronie.
As they passed the half-finished church, Reverend Nashe emerged and watched them from the steps. He said nothing, but the disgust and hate on his face was plain. Sean ignored him, but Sophronie suddenly walked faster until they reached the boardinghouse.
“I better get going,” Sophronie said, suddenly serious. “I’d like to get home before full dark.”
“Well, just be here tomorrow morning by eight,” Sean said. “We’ve got a long day of filming ahead of us.”
“I will.”
He considered kissing her. He didn’t care who saw him, but realized it might make things awkward for her. She squeezed his hand, then turned and walked away. She strolled off down the street, glancing back at him until she was out of sight.
24
Sean floated above the trees, held in Sophronie’s slender but amazingly strong arms, kissing her with all the gentleness and love he could muster. The soft gust from each slow flap of her wings caressed his face, and the tinkling glass music from the cave filled his ears. All the cares, ambitions, and fears that defined his life were gone, replaced
with an overwhelming warmth and peace. If this was love, then he’d never even come close to experiencing it before.
“Sean! Sean!”
Sean opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window, the shafts illuminating the dust in the air. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m awake.”
Ben leaned over him. “Jesus, man, I thought you were dead. I couldn’t wake you up.”
“I’m awake,” he repeated, annoyed.
“You better come downstairs.”
“Are the actors here?”
“Yeah, but…”
“What?”
“It’s better if you just come down.”
Sean dressed quickly and combed his hair into place. Ben nervously paced behind him. Sean asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just come down,” Ben repeated, pushing him toward the door. They descended the stairs to the parlor.
Two men waited at the bottom of the stairs: Sheriff Bowden and Reverend Nashe. Perhaps the snide minister thought his civic prominence would get him a spot in front of the camera. But the sheriff hadn’t brought his banjo.
“Gentlemen,” Sean said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lee,” Bowden said. He wouldn’t meet Sean’s eyes.
“Is there a problem?” Sean asked.
“I’m afraid so,” the sheriff said. “Can we step outside?”
Sean and Ben followed the lawman and minister out onto the porch. It was a cool morning, and mist filled the street, creating a sense of loneliness and isolation. Bowden said, “I understand you were with Miss Sophronie Conlin yesterday?”
“That’s right,” Sean said guardedly. “I visited her family’s home up in the hills, and she helped me scout out filming locations. Why?”
The sheriff finally looked directly at him. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Miss Conlin is dead.”
Sean felt as if the world withdrew, leaving him alone in a desperate void. “What?”
“We found her body hanging from a tree down by the Reverend’s church. She’d been lynched.” He cut his eyes at the Reverend Nashe. “Most likely it was the White Caps. They never took too kindly to the Tufa, and I guess they caught her in town after dark.”
Sean stood completely still, then without a word turned and bolted out the door and down the street toward the church.
* * *
It was her.
That had been his hope the whole way to the church. Another girl, slender and dark-haired, might have been mistaken for Sophronie. That would be tragic as well, but it would be someone else’s tragedy.
But there was no doubt. Even with her purple, distorted face, bulging eyes, and swollen tongue, he could tell instantly that it was her. She wore the same dress, and her bare feet, stained black from a lifetime of running around the mountains, still swung in the slight breeze three feet off the ground. The rope around her neck went over a high branch and had been tied around the trunk.
Already, people gathered around the tree. Many pointed at him and whispered.
Sean’s throat constricted, and he concentrated on breathing through his nose. He choked out, “The White Caps did this?”
“Men with white masks,” Bowden said sheepishly. “That’s all anybody saw.”
“Men of conscience,” Nashe said, “sometimes have to protect themselves from the unjust.” His wife had joined him, and they both looked smug and triumphant.
Sean ignored the minister. “If you know who they are,” he said to Bowden, “why don’t you arrest them?”
“Ain’t got no proof, and no witnesses,” he said sadly.
Sean could only nod. He understood organized crime; it had begun to reach its tendrils into the motion picture industry, requiring kickbacks from exhibitors and extra consideration from film companies.
Bowden stepped close to Sean, and said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I’m real sorry. She was a real sweet girl.”
Basemath Nashe pushed her way through the crowd and stared up at Sophronie’s corpse. She covered her mouth with her hands, and tears sprang to her eyes. She let out a single hard, harsh sob.
“Basemath,” Reverend Nashe snapped. “Behave yourself.”
She turned and looked at her father. “You did this,” she said coldly. “Just as you did in Virginia. And Georgia before that.”
“Basemath!” Mrs. Nashe said in a shrill, biting cry. “To your room this instant! On your knees and pray for forgiveness!”
Basemath walked right up to her father and looked him in the eye. Sean had never seen such cold, pure hatred. “You’re a liar and a murderer, Father.”
Nashe’s face turned red with rage. “You will not—”
He got no farther. Basemath snatched Bowden’s revolver from its holster and shot her father point-blank in the face. Then she shot her mother right in her twisted, venom-spewing mouth. She turned back to her father and fired three more times into his dead body.
The gunshots echoed in the morning mist. No one moved.
Then, before anyone could stop her, she put the gun to her temple and put the final bullet through her own brain.
At last, someone in the crowd screamed. People ran in all directions, leaving Sean and the sheriff alone among the dead bodies.
“Cut her down,” Sean said quietly.
Bowden looked at him, then at the bodies on the ground, then back at him. He was totally unprepared for this. He retrieved his gun from Basemath’s dead hand and said, “What?”
“Cut her down!” Sean screamed, louder than he’d ever screamed anything before in his life.
Bowden blinked, and the glassy look left his eyes. He produced a large pocket knife and cut the rope where it was tied. Sean caught Sophronie as she fell; she weighed hardly anything in his arms. He pulled her close; her body was stiff and cold.
Tucker Carding appeared at his side. He looked down at Sophronie for a long moment. “You poor little thing,” he said to her, and lightly stroked her hair. “This is all my fault. You didn’t deserve this.”
“Come with me to the undertaker’s,” the sheriff said quietly. “We’ll lay her out there.”
“What about them?” Sean asked, nodding at the Nashes.
“They can rot right there for all I care.”
“Who’ll tell her family?” Sean croaked out around the sob stuck in his throat.
“I will,” Tucker said.
“No, I’ll head out there and do it this afternoon,” Bowden said. “I’ve got a whole speech for this sort of thing.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Sean said. “They deserve to hear it from someone…” He trailed off before he said aloud, someone who loved their daughter as much as they did. Because he couldn’t explain how that was possible, after knowing her for slightly more than one day. But he also knew it was true.
* * *
Later that day, after Sophronie had been placed in the best coffin Sean’s money could buy, he returned to her family’s cabin. As he approached, he knew something was wrong. No smoke rose from the chimney, and the front door stood open. All the little homey touches, like rocking chairs, butter churns, and moonshine jugs that had been on the porch were gone. A look inside confirmed it: the Conlins weren’t there.
That did it. He sat down on the porch and cried, his loneliness piercing the silence of the forest with his sobs. He put his head in his hands and expressed grief greater than he ever knew he could feel.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, but he looked up when a sharp male voice said, “Sean. Sean.”
Tucker Carding stood in the yard. He was dressed in country work clothes instead of his dapper city duds, which emphasized how much he resembled the Conlins. Sean was amazed he hadn’t noticed it before.
“What are you doing here?” Sean choked out.
Tucker sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Gently he said, “You know, I bet you’re even scaring the catamounts away with all that blubbering. And it won’t bring Sophronie back.”
“Wha
t’s a catamount?” Sean choked out.
“You’ll know when one grabs ahold of you.”
“I don’t think I’d care.”
“Do you care about your friends, Ben and Richard?”
The warning in his words broke through Sean’s agony. “What about them?”
“Y’all need to leave. Immediately. Tonight.”
Sean took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. His head pounded. “Are you one of the White Caps, then?”
Tucker smiled. “Me? No. I’m just giving you a friendly warning. Has nothing to do with the White Caps.”
“Back in town, you said this was all your fault. What did you mean by that?”
“I gave you the map that led you to Sophronie. And I sent her out to meet you yesterday.”
“Did you plan for us to…?”
“Ah, what does it matter now? Forget about Sophronie and the cave and what you think you know. And get out of here tonight. Or you’ll never leave.”
* * *
It was 10 P.M. before the last train of the day, the 9:15, belatedly pulled out of Sadieville station, slowly chuffing itself up to speed. Ben sat beside Sean, wanting to comfort his friend but afraid to try.
Richard sat across from them, impeccably dressed as always, watching the town move past the windows. “As the lady said, ‘I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.’”
“What lady?” Ben asked.
“Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. I had the misfortune of playing Fritz in a rather dire stage adaptation.”
Sean watched the lights of the town slide by, replaced by the flickering of trees as they passed through illumination shining from the train’s windows. At last he turned to Ben. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said numbly. “I have to visit the hopper.”
Ben looked out the window; the town was completely gone now, left behind them as they picked up speed and headed north. And the only film they’d shot was hidden in his bag, because he never wanted Sean to find out about it.
A tremble went through the car, noticeably different from the rhythm of their passage. Richard looked up. It continued for a couple of minutes, then faded.
“What was that?” Ben asked.
At that moment a porter hurried by, and Richard grabbed him. “Excuse me, but what was that shaking?”